


An Illustrious Client

by House_of_Ares



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Actually Sherlock and John are parenthetical, Clint Barton has terrible judgement, Crossover: totally possible, Fake Names, Jim Moriarty fancies a shag, M/M, Mostly-offscreen sex, Sniper!Clint, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before joining SHIELD, Clint Barton was in it for the money - no more, no less, no problem.  He even took clients overseas.<br/>He probably should've been a little more careful.<br/>(Inspiration:  <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbbhV9AMO48">Right here</a>)</p><p>No characters were harmed in the making of this story.<br/>Also: Shameless Savile Row suit porn (h/t to Greg, you know who you are, dear)</p><p>Comments craved and appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Illustrious Client

They said he'd never see the Boss, and Clint was fine with that. Alone in a foreign country, he played tourist between jobs, staying within a not-ridiculous cab fare of the hotel, burner phone shoved in his coat pocket.  
It was ridiculous, England of all places, centuries of history stacked up around him. He'd been on the tour groups, seen the stratum of red-black melted wrath Boudicca left the Romans to rebuild on. Insane amounts of history, the close cobbled streets (those reminded him of Baltimore, the oldest parts of Baltimore, that were paved generations after these), the buildings seen by Pilgrims before they left for American shores.  
He'd picked up the phone ( _mobile,_ he reminded himself) the first day, as instructed, but there was no one to call.  
The few contacts he'd made said he'd never see the Boss. After the third job, he reported to an address and was greeted by a small, dark-haired man dressed to the nines despite the stupidly hot weather and the fact that they were in a decrepit row of warehouses.  
“Hell of a suit for this weather,” Clint said, hand out.  
The man just grinned, open-mouthed and all mirth.  
“I love that about Americans. So unafraid to say what's on your mind. I'm Jack.” He shook the proffered hand. Firm grip, but moisturized, manicured.  
The _gay_ was so strong Clint nearly choked.  
“Sebastian. Nice to meet you.”  
“Not your real name, is it,” Jack said.  
Clint stiffened a bit. He couldn't be expected to give away his real name. “Of course not, but it's what I'm using.”  
“Oh, splendid,” Jack said, and his dark eyes were positively sparkling. Clint couldn't decide if he was scared or in lust.  
“So! I've been very impressed so far, _Sebastian_. You really do have an amazing talent.”  
“It's not a talent, it's a skill,” he pointed out, and Jack rocked back and forth on his feet, hands jammed in his pockets and grinning broadly, his square-toed shoes gleaming among the gravel.  
“Oh, I'm sure. Took you years to perfect.”  
Clint watched him, decided he was okay, and felt like a complete tool for wearing jeans and a T-shirt with something about Cardiff football on it.  
“I feel pretty under-dressed right now.”  
“Don't worry about a thing, love. You blend right in. Told you to look like a tourist, right?”  
“I suppose so. Not exactly, uh. Whatever that is,” he said, tipping his head toward Jack.  
Jack made a shocked face that turned to coy lust in a breath.  
“Ooh. No, Anderson and Sheppard would definitely disapprove.” He picked at Clint's T-shirt and traced a knuckle down sternum. “I'm sure we could get you a nice bespoke thing if you like.” He licked his bottom lip in what should have looked comically over-the-top but he stared into Clint's eyes too long.  
 _Oh, Christ,_ Clint thought.  
“Well! I need to be moving right along, Sebastian. People to do, things to see, you know.” He turned on his heel and strode off whistling before Clint could speak.  
“Wait! When's the next –“  
“Soon,” Jack called back. “They'll be calling. Bye-bye now.” He waved over his shoulder, a waggle of fingertips, and Clint wanted to chase him but he stood there, frozen to the spot until Jack disappeared around a corner.  
He stumbled back to lean against the brick wall, trembling and hard, and all he could think about was mauling that ridiculous lush mouth because Jack would be _filthy._  
He was halfway back to his hotel when he reached into his pocket for cash to buy some water and came up with a business card too – blank but for a phone number written in fountain pen.

\--------------------------

The jobs gave him little pangs sometimes. Sometimes the people knew and were terrified – he'd been given the laser even when he protested – and sometimes they didn't, which was just easier. There was a voice in his ear, calm and disinterested, and Clint had to stay on his toes because in most cases he was expected to shoot _on order,_ no waiting. The ugly one with the scarred face had made that very, very explicit – “an order means _now,_ Mr. Moran. Let me be perfectly clear on that” – and if a delay was an option, he'd be told so.  
It didn't matter, really; Clint was used to shooting on demand and timing his shots. The _idea_ irked him a bit. What if a gust of wind came up? What if the target bent down? But those things didn't happen.

\--------------------------

He didn't call Jack's number that week; he wasn't sure who the hell Jack was (the Boss? The Boss' secretary?) and was this all some kind of bizarre test?  
The job was weird; there were two men, one like so many of the others, terrified (although he did an admirable job of hiding it) and another with a pistol. Clint was standing on the roof with the damp-basement smell of the river wafting up.  
Jack walked into the ring of the scope.  
Clint never took his eyes off the man – the scared one, he was the target – until he grabbed Jack. The order, calm and flat, came to switch. Clint complied. Didn't matter to him which one he took out. Jack wandered out of view, and Clint was told to switch back. It was hard not to watch what was going on, but the order might come any second to shoot.  
The voice in his ear told him to stand down and he was just about to roll the rifle off the bipod because stand down meant stand down, and the phone rang.  
He hadn't even gotten a _hello_ out when he was interrupted by a tutting.  
“You haven't called me, _Sebastian._ I was so looking forward to it.”  
“I've been... busy with work,” he countered, although that was not exactly true. He'd had plenty of time to think about Jack alone in his hotel bed. And shower.  
“That's unfortunate. I was hoping you'd have time to fuck me.” The self-satisfied chuckle made Clint lurch.  
“Oh, yes,” Jack continued. “And I'm in such a _mood_ tonight, I'm absolutely _crazy.”_  
He tried to get a word out and his throat just clicked.  
“After this job, tiger, I want you in my bed – we'll have so much _fun!”_  
“I just got a stand-down.” He was rock-hard and his hand trembled when he reached to unscrew the silencer.  
“Ohhh,” Jack purred. “That. Don't do that just yet.” A gasp, that maddening giggle. “I changed my mind, this will be so much better.”  
The phone disconnected and Clint stopped, mind racing. A moment later the dispassionate voice on the com unit told him to turn on the other lasers and called him a stupid cunt when he was slow because of the shakes.

\--------------------------

Stand-down came again a few minutes later.  
“For real, this time?”  
The line went dead and Clint lay there, breathing and trying to get his raging erection under control. Jack didn't answer when he called and he went back to the hotel, was fumbling his gear off to get into the shower when the phone beeped with a text message.  
An address.  
Clint stashed his gear and hailed a cab.

\--------------------------

“I think we can dispense with the names, don't you?”  
There was something coldly sinister there this time. Clint stood there, watching warily because maybe Jack had just found out something he really didn’t like about him.  
Jack was standing there in a just a silk bathrobe and slippers, hair wild as if he'd been pulling at it.  
“Maybe I should go,” Clint said, because Jack was giving him the creeps. Then Jack smiled, all dark sunshine again, and pushed the door shut behind him.  
“What a beautiful job,” Jack said, and stood on his toes to bite Clint's neck savagely.  
 _“Ow!_ Shit!”  
“Golden rule, honey. Treat others as you would have them treat you.”  
Jack's eyes were black in the dim light, and Clint shoved him back against the wall, bit his shoulder through the bathrobe. Jack moaned and shoved against him, scraped teeth through his hair and grabbed his arms.  
“Oh, yes, my fucking _tiger.”_

\--------------------------

Clint woke up, tired and sticky with sweat and spit and semen and blood. He ached _everywhere_ and when he opened his eyes, Jack was in his bathrobe again, sitting in a chair near the bed, freshly showered and staring at him with that open-mouthed grin.  
“Morning,” Clint managed, because there was nothing else coming to mind.  
“Cup of tea, dear?”  
He rubbed a hand over his eyes.  
“Got any coffee?”  
“Oh, how did I ever know?”  
Clint sat up, tugged the sheet over his waist, and took the cup.  
“Now see, that's just _charming,”_ Jack said. “So beautifully debauched and demure at the same time. Oh, you _are_ fun, aren't you?”  
Clint sipped at the coffee; it was different, somewhere between espresso and drip, not unpleasant but unfamiliar.  
“I try to be fun, I guess,” he said.  
Jack raised his teacup for a drink and his sleeve slid down. A dozen purple bruises stood out in stark contrast to the pale skin. Clint looked at him, unsure.  
Jack licked his lip again, eyes dancing.  
“I think I'll keep you around awhile,” he said.  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Oh, _yes.”_ He stared openly at Clint, sunlight streaming through the window across them both.  
His eyes reminded Clint of swimming in the old quarry, tannin-brown with fallen oak leaves and warm as blood.  
Clint put the coffee down on the nightstand and gestured for Jack to come back, grinning. By the time he picked it up again, it was stone cold.

\--------------------------

The gifts started not long after. A watch, heavy and perfect. When Clint googled “Breitling” he saw it there – mostly the same model – and nearly choked at the price.

He was picked up at seven a.m. on the dot at his hotel by a car after a text from Jack. He was getting more familiar with London, often walking around just to learn the layout, and recognized the area. The woman who'd picked him up took him into a shop that practically oozed money and he was stripped to the underwear (still wearing bruises from Jack) and measured. The woman riffled through swatches of cloth and ignored Clint completely.  
“Don't I get a say in all this?”  
She smiled, sweet and condescending.  
“No.”

\--------------------------

What Jack liked, Clint discovered, was being held down and fucking _taken._ He was savage in it, biting and clawing at Clint to goad him on.  
He was scared, at first, scared to hurt the slender body that felt fragile under delicate skin, but Jack would bite and curse and remind him he wasn't some kind of _doll,_ for Christ's sake.  
When Clint sank his teeth into throat, just under jaw where he could feel the cartilage give, he was stunned by the grip around his own throat, cutting off air and blood, and Jack rolled him over.  
“I'm sure I've told you before, _no marks above the collar.”_  
Those dark eyes glittered amber in the failing afternoon sun and Clint was suddenly reminded of how deadly adults had said the quarry was. _No swimming there._  
He nodded, cowed, and Jack grinned at him, licking his bottom lip hungrily, and squirmed a bit.  
“Proceed, then,” he said, and Clint did although his blood ran cold.

\--------------------------

He was getting ready for a job – challenging, they said, right outside NSY – when the order came to stand down.  
“Roger that,” he said, and grabbed his rifle.  
“That will be all, Mr. Moran. You're relieved of duty.”  
“...What?”  
“There's a return plane ticket for you at the BA counter at Heathrow. Goodbye, Mr. Moran.”  
The line went dead, and Clint sat on the roof for awhile, staring out over London.  
He'd just been fired. Relieved. Terminated.  
Well. Not _terminated._ That would've been much more permanent.  
He should say goodbye to Jack; that would be appropriate. Maybe one last fuck. Maybe Jack wouldn't be crazy this time.

Jack wasn't home. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. He imagined he could hear the Bee Gees but he knew it wasn't real.

\--------------------------

In the hospital, back in Baltimore where everything now felt strangely foreign, he recognized the man that had been following him. The little half-smile that played around the corner of his mouth.  
“Jasper,” he slurred, still on the good drugs.  
The man cocked his head.  
“No, Jasper's not here right now.”  
Clint pulled focus, held up the hand without an IV in it to poke the man's lapel.  
“Jasper Littman,” he said, grinning like a madman because the man who was following him, who shot him, looks confused. “Or Gieves and Hawkes. I can never tell.”  
“Nice try,” the man says. “Dolce. Get some sleep, Mr. Barton.”


End file.
